


Vincent

by EmWeaCh



Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Art, It is just me or van Gogh's backstory resembles these two's?, Other, Urie I know you drew van Gogh, Urie's an artist, van Gogh's impressionism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-01-06 21:59:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18397175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmWeaCh/pseuds/EmWeaCh
Summary: As an artist, he always looked up to Vincent van Gogh the most. The more he traversed through life, the more he found himself thinking about the late man's works. He witnessed the beauty, the boldness, the ugliness within the masterpiece.





	1. Crude drawing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theexistentialqueer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theexistentialqueer/gifts), [uchihas1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uchihas1000/gifts).
  * Inspired by [the treachery of images](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18334256) by [theexistentialqueer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theexistentialqueer/pseuds/theexistentialqueer). 



> MY FIRST CONTRIBUTION YEEEEEEEEEEEEET I love this ship for like, years and this is my first fanfic for them ever. Please enjoy and forgive me if I make any mistake uwu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hated it, the imperfection.

Urie Kuki was a ghoul investigator, a well-trimmed fighter, a captain, a Quinx. He inherited the warrior gene from his father, hence following his footstep appeared to be the son's foremost aim in life. They were so alike, praised for their strength, their reliability, their commitment. For his father had been deemed such a fine man for his job, Urie Kuki always strove to showcase the late man's legacy, to live up his superiors' expectation as well as his own.

But running in his veins was also his mother's artistry. She was the one who taught him how to be an artist, how to illustrate his world through colours and contour. Urie picked up the brushes before the quinques. Lines and strokes on the canvas were unlike thrusts and stabs on the ghouls' flesh and bones. The oily smell of paints was far from the metallic smell of blood. He created something when he drew, and destroyed others when he was on his missions. Mind on promotion during his slaughters, but lost in the experience when he was alone with his paints, trays, brushes and canvas. He never considered it as his career, though, but it was not a mere past-time either. There were times he had clung onto it as an escape from the suffocating scenes surrounding him, but no more.

The job given to him deprived Urie of time to pursue art. Free-time was a luxury, not to mention his headspace was constantly plagued with worries and fears. The more he was consumed by his work, the thicker dust covered his art supplies. His room used to be infused with the scent of paint solvent, but it was replaced by coldness and fatigue.

However, hidden in a corner of his tired mind was the silent bit of artistry, waiting to surface again. His fingertips longed for the rough sketch paper, or the neatly patterned fabric stretched on the wooden frames when the smooth and slippery print paper came into contact too much. Frustration accumulated like the mountains of paperwork on his desk, nagging at his brain, demanding for a release, yet always got ignored in the favour of "duty". But it always lingered in the back of his skull, reminding him of who he was.

If he were to pick one as the most influential artist on him now, in his rare segment of solace, Urie would definitely go for Vincent van Gogh. He slowly brought himself to sensing that vague and hazy connection with the late man, although at the very beginning, it was beyond question for him to take it into consideration.

 __________

The first encounter was, in his childish mind, a big dissappointment. Urie still remembered how much his younger self had expected the art of van Gogh to be mind-blowing, exquisite, splendid, everything the world had told him about it. His childish eyes, however, had perceived the pictures as crude drawings, lacking the professionality, lacking depth, or anything the people in van Gogh's time had said about the artist's works. They were all jerks, and so had he been, Urie thought with his lips a awkward smile.

His first impression about Mutsuki Tooru was the same. To him, his collegue had been a weakling, a hindrace, someone unfit for the fierce job they had all taken. A crude drawing, no where near to being considered art. Mutsuki, incompetent. Mutsuki, a coward. Mutsuki, a hypocrite. Just like Sasaki. He couldn't even release his kagune, struggled with his quinque, useless. Urie hadn't even bothered acting nice to him, why would he? (Urie even sometimes called him  _Weed_ internally, the stubborn parasite that somehow never disappear). Being the team captain was equivalent to being the superior, hence it was no point acting as if they were on the same standard. Disdain would be an understatement, hatred would be an applicable term. At times Urie had wondered how on earth could the CCG allow someone like Mutsuki (or Yonebayashi) to become a Quinx at all. He had looked up their data, nothing was really beneficial to him. They are none but unnecessary weight, he had thought. _For they are such, then what's the point of caring, why not just disposing them off?_ Back then, maybe he wouldn't bat a eye if they had died, as long as their deaths wouldn't affect his path of promotion. Mutsuki's soft tone, stiff posture and awkward use of formality to practically everyone was stark contrast to Urie's cold voice, cold gesture and cold mind. Mutsuki was nice, Urie was a jerk, he hadn't cared, not to the slightest. 

 __________

His opinion on Vincent van Gogh changed as got older and older. The more he studied art, the more he went deep into the layers within van Gogh's legacies. He was finally able to catch a glimpse of the mastery he had once overlooked. Colours vividly contrast, brushstrokes bold and defined. It was the representation of life at its finest. The blooming flowers, the streaming rivers, the golden wheat field, sky, earth, plants, humans, strong and beautiful. It felt as if all beings were breathing, feeling. It was so charismatic and lively, while so unique and somehow distorted. Urie couldn't quite make out the underlying unsettling tone just yet, lured by the peaceful themes and gleeful colour palettes.

Having his position given to Shirazu was dreading indeed, but it had made the bubble surrounding Urie pop, leading him to be more conscious about the world around him, in which there was Mutsuki. 

Still the same anxious, awkward driven person that he couldn't help but doubt. Urie remained uncomfortable, but he was more observant, more concerned. He found himself occasionally stealing a glance of Mutsuki in the training room hopelessly trying to deal with the quinque replica. He twisted his wrist, struggled to find the right way to handle them, only ended up dodging the knife frantically.  _Not enough muscle, stiff joints, unnecessary movements_ , Urie could tell every single problem that Mutsuki had to deal with, but remained silent. His sour ego didn't allow him to utter a word, since it considered everyone's improvement to be the competitor in his road to promotion. But there was... something in the way he tried to pull his practice off, some sort of overwhelming determination. Breaths huffed out heavily, soaked in sweat, eyes glued to thin air ahead, it felt as if Mutsuki was always in a fight with an unknown enemy, unlike Urie who had his mind mostly on promotion.

 __________

The Auction Raid, however, was the breaking point that he never expected. RC cells rushing in his veins, Urie's mind became a chaotic mess of incoherent noises, screaming and crying and deafening him inside out. He got berserk. He swirled his kagune all around. He was lost. He was injured. He was curling up in anger and desperation. Urie was so vulnerable and helpless. He hated himself like that. He was... weak. _An obstacle._

_I hate all of you. Just die. Die die die die die die DIE **D I E**_

His right hand was surrounded by layers of soft flesh and hot blood. He heard a hitch, breath cut short.

"...Mutsu...ki...?"

 _So he was there?_ Right next to him? His eyes widened, face plastered with blank shock. There was blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, and from his nostrils. His kakugan on the right eye was still blazing crimson, staring at his bloody face with cluterring emotions that Urie couldn't quite decipher back then.

"..Urie..." Mutsuki's voice was weak and breathy. It sounded as if he was choked.

Urie's hand had penetrated his abdomen, thus deepened the pre-existent wounds that Big Madam's minions had left on him. The red thick liquid kept pouring out of the gashes, seeping into the soiled fabric of the dress he was wearing. Urie, shocked, pulled back frantically.

Mutsuki... did not back away. He did not scream, did not jerk back in defense.

Instead, he moved closer. His hand brushed against Urie's face gently. His face a serene soft smile, as if it didn't pain him to the slightest. The fabric rustled. Something, deep red, flung around and embraced Urie softly. Segments of something sharp, almost metallic, put together. His kagune was released, for the first time.

"You're not in the way..."

_Am I?_

"It's okay..."

_Is it?_

"It's painful... being alone..."

_It... is_

"It's agonizing..."

_I'm all alone and it hurts so much..._

_If only..._

Urie realised, that all along, he wished for something so simple. _Acknoledgement. Trust. A hug. To be not alone._

 A strange scent oozed out from Mutsuki, almost impossible to be made out from the smell of blood and metal. Urie, with his mind a bit less cluttering, a bit calmer, with his sense slightly sharper, knew something.

"Mutsuki..."

His head felt heavy. It was all so exhausting that he needed a rest.

"...you are...a... ~~woman~~..?"

He leant onto his collegue. Mutsuki remained silent.

In that split moment of solace amidst all that chaos, something changed in him, small and vague, yet to be found out.

 


	2. A piece of art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Green and red makes an ugly contrast in this claustrophobic place.  
> So don't get blood stained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO FREAKING MONTHS!  
> I hate my self and all this procrastination.  
> This still needs A LOT OF editting because my writing skills have been going downhill from the low peak they were one at.  
> Full chapter is now updated, sorry for a werid and terrible end.

“About the other day, what you found out… please don’t tell anyone about it…”

Chateau was dead silent. Sasaki, Shirazu and Yonebayashi had already settled in their rooms for the night. Urie closed the fridge with a bottle of cold water in his hand, as the door uttered a faint thud.

Immediately after being discharged from CCG’s healthcare facility, Urie came back with his intensive training “to get back in shape” and “fit for the third frame”, he said. The long run in late evening was one of which. For most of the time, he came back with the main room completely vacant. It usually continued with him taking a shower, painting a bit, then going to bed when the clock hit the middle of the night. A fixed schedule that helped him function at his full capacity, he thought. Sasaki had scolded him several times for it, only to give up later. It had always gone with no changes, no interruption, no “moron sticking their nose in his business”. Until the day he was finally released from hospital.

Mutsuki waited for him in the couch. The lamp next to it turned on, illuminated the room faintly, just enough to make their faces recognisable. As Urie shoved the cold liquid down his throat, Mutsuki approached him, almost too quietly. Then he stood still, eyes gazing straight at his colleague’s, his lips parted, asking for a favour.

His anxiety did not escape Urie’s sense. Much as he tried to keep his voice stern and steady, it was still somewhat hesitant and timid. His hands gripped the hem of his neutral-coloured shirt as it wrinkled. Urie could not understand.

_Why do you act as if I oppress you?_

_Why do I feel so obliged to do this?_

_Why do you live as a_ **_man_ ** _?_

It appeared that Urie had been lost in his own thoughts for quite a while, as Mutsuki’s concerned voice rang like an alarm out of his trance.

“Urie?”

He blinked at Mutsuki’s slightly worried face.

“No, it’s nothing…”

“So, about what I was talking about…, please, don’t tell anyone that you found out I’m a, um…”

Even uttering the word seemed difficult for him.

“OK.” Urie huffed.

“Pardon?”

“I don’t actually plan to mention it in the first place, no need to worry.”

_I don’t quite understand your motive under it, though. But I won’t question it._

Urie found himself… too soft-spoken. It felt strange hearing his voice like that. No, it felt strange that he wasn’t annoyed at all. Maybe it was guilt, for the fact that he had literally impaled an already injured person. Maybe it was guilt that he had found out something that he was supposed to be unaware of.

Maybe it was gratitude, that Mutsuki’s soft smile had given him a sense of comfort in such an ungodly time, when they were soaked in their own blood, and death was just a few steps away.

Mutsuki exhaled with relief. The muscles of his face released. As he dropped his head, the green locks of hair hovered over his eyes. The dim light flickered with the light of his hair, creating a strange illusion. Like a field of irises, under the fading sun.

“...Thank you!” His voice chimed, soft and bright, “That means a lot to me!”

_That… much..._

As Mutsuki lifted his head, his hair wavered, uttering a faint scent of mint, probably from the shampoo he used. It played with Urie’s nostrils, fresh and chilling.

“I shouldn’t bother you anymore should I? Now excuse me…”

Mutsuki quickly left the living room, disappeared behind the staircase. A click shattered the brief silence dryly, he had locked his door.

Urie was left alone in the spacious room, back to his everyday track. Yet he stood still, the cold bottle turned his palm numb, droplets of water made trails in between his fingers, reached his nails and fell to the ground.

 _It felt a bit empty, being like this_. 

As the door behind him closed, Urie was finally in his own sanctuary. The room was infused by the smell of disolvent, silent and still until it got disrupted by Yonebayashi's or Shirazu's complaints. _Oil paint for today,_ as he held two tubes to his nostrils, urging his nerves to differentiate between the two pigments. A daily check-up of his sensing ability, yet he carried it out like a ritual. _Viridian and shamrock smell almost identical_ , but they couldn't escape an artist's studying eyes. As he squeezed the colours onto the newly cleaned palette, its wet sound was almost deafening for a moment. Urie picked up his brush, dipping the bristles into one dense lump of oil paint, then stroked the canvas. A performer, without audience. A vacant stage, with no one watching, nor admiring.

Maybe he had been alone for too long.

Van Gogh found comfort within the colour of the leaves. Urie, might feel the same.

He just wasn’t sure yet.

__________

 

The Chateau was noisy. Yonebayashi’s high-pitched voice rang like a bell, Shirazu was still being loud, and Sasaki didn’t even seem to be bothered much about that.

He hated a place of such little discipline.

Jersey zipped up, earphones plugged, sneakers’ laces tied neatly, he should be good to go. The cold weather of winter made him feel a bit more comfortable compared to the rainy season’s humidity. The gym shouldn’t be too crowded during dinner time, not to mention people would rather flock together for the religious festival. The irony was that they threw a feast over a religion that the majority of the country’s population did not follow. Christmas? He couldn’t care less.

“Where are you going, Urie?”

But it was exactly what his co-inhabitants were doing, throwing a feast over a religious event that none of them followed.

“Training”

“You can’t! Sasaki-sensei said we’re all celebrating together tonight!”

Mutsuki had directly talked to him quite a lot since the auction, the more frequently, the less he seemed timid. The only problem was that Mutsuki acted like Sasaki, and it was annoying.

“Count me out…” _I’m not playing family with you._

And yet he held out a small piece of paper, filled with scribbles, to Urie.

“I need you to do the shopping, the ingredients are running low!”

“I’m not running errands.”

_I can totally abandoned your “errands” and leave your “celebration” to doom, you know?_

And yet Urie was there, in the market. He winced at the list Mutsuki had given him: _three to five cartons of milk, eggs - as many as possible, drinks - some, a lot of turkey…_

**_What the actual fuck?_ **

Urie was screaming on the inside, as he took grumpy steps through the streets. The sirens from the cars, the loud music from the mall, the guitar strum and the singing of some buskers, all of which chanted an imperfect aria, yet no one seemed to be bothered by such a chaotic orchestra. Everything was laced with flickering lights, lit up the evening with golden glow. Like the _Café Terrace at night_ , it was warm, comforting, almost too lively for its own good. Tokyo had always been all about bustle and hustle, and he was all about work and promotion. Such was a rare occasion that he allowed himself to stop thinking about it, to “live in the moment”. He just didn’t realize that. He was clueless about too many things, the things that he would regret not

Rather, he was pissed off by Mutsuki’s indefinite guidelines, as the commodity weighed down his hands.

 

Much as Urie hated to admit it, the night turned out to be nowhere as bad as he thought it would be. He spent time idling within **the** Arima Kishou's and **the** Suzuya Juuzou's ten-metre radius, received a _not-so-disastrous_ gift from Sasaki. The food he brought back was turned into something _more-than-merely-edible_ by a _ghoul_ and _the asshole_ who had shoved the task of going shopping into his hands in the very first place. Soon after the guests had left, he quickly slipped into his room, as usual.

The way Mutsuki’s face lit up when Sasaki handed him the leather eyepatch somehow stuck on Urie’s mind.

__________

 

They were ambushed by ghouls in an abandoned building. Rose, White Suits, Aogiri, each had their cadets engaged in a narrow battlefield. Urie encountered the Rose from the auction. He almost got the ghoul, what a shame.

Mutsuki, though, didn’t finish as neatly as Urie did. He was engaged in a battle with a quinque user, strangely enough. But this time, he did not hesitate nor budge. His eyepatch dropped without him relising it, and his kakugan blazed fiery, fixed on the enemy. Ifraft and Abksol danced in his reach, screeched sharply as their contact with the sword-like quinque. Within a bat of an eye, his crimson kagune pierced the dusty air in the building, knocked the ghoul’s kagune off. It stabbed the ceiling, Mutsuki narrowed his eyes, ready to launch one final blow.

His attack was blocked by three razors - the quinque user’s bikaku.

Urie arrived there, the kagunes cut through the air shrilly. He saw Mutsuki dodge every blow defensively, his body coordinated, agile. Six months, enough for everyone in the squad to considerably improve, but Mutsuki was the one who took the greatest speed. He quickly learnt to manipulate his kagune shortly after the first release, and the daggers became even deadlier in his hands thanks to Suzuya’s instruction. Sasaki even believed that he could spar with Urie without quickly losing his ground, and it was something that Urie subconsciously believed in. He was not perfect, but he was strong, determined. A piece of art, bold, slightly playful and out-of-control, picturesque.

But it wasn’t enough to defeat the ghoul, at this rate Mutsuki would receive a critical injury from the quinque swing of “The grave robber”. Urie didn’t complain, didn’t mock him on the inside. He just rushed and blocked the blow with Tsunagi. He simply disdained the idea of any damage.

_Green and red makes an ugly contrast in this claustrophobic place._

_So don’t get bloodstained._

__________

 

The 6th ward’s ghouls were scarce and cautious, given that the ambush on Rose had been carried out by Kijima in the exact area just a while before that. Unlike Shirazu and Yonebayashi, Urie and Mutsuki didn’t manage to get much information.

On the top of an old building, they took a rest after a not so fruitful surveillance. Considering the condition of the infrastructure, they were not really likely to encounter another ghoul. Urie lifted the mask to clear his sight. Its design somehow resembled a Medieval helmet, as if he was a knight in a battle. Yet at the same time, the peak reminded him of the beak of a raptor. He was a hunter, eager to seize the chance of capturing his prey. It just didn't turn out the way he wanted it to be, The evening breezes clashed against his open skin, chilling to the depths of his pores, almost mockingly.

Mutsuki, on the other hand, had a mask that neatly covered his face. It was pale and blanched, exposed his solely kakugan by a strong contrast. The seam imitated a sealed mouth, threads crossed one another. The eyepatch concealed his normal one, intentionally. With the mask on, Mutsuki looked so bizarre, distorted and somewhat lethal. The colour white reflected even the weakest ray of light, stood out eerily in the dark. Urie felt as if he could see thin smoke diffuse from it. _A skull_.

Mutsuki pulled the mask down to his neck, huffed out a small sigh. His diaphragm elevated clearly in spite of the layers of fabric covering his build, as he took a deep breath.

Urie glanced at his profile, almost studied. He was completely different from the way he had been, from the auction. Not the same timid, scared person. His demeanor relaxed, composed, but still vigilant enough to dodge any potential attack. The im city light caressed his chocolate skin, highlighting delicate flesh and edges. His olive eyes didn't reflect fear nor hesitation, only the light. They were straight and determined, uttering the kind of energy that Urie thought was what needed for this kind of mission. _Unlike Yonebayashi. Unlike Shirazu._

It was actually surprising that he saved such words for Mutsuki. For someone he had once looked down on.

Mutsuki was on the same ground as he was now, and it did not make him mad.

"He sure has a weird aesthetic, the mask maker..." Mutsuki broke the silence "I have no idea what he drew from the questions he asked me, nor the inspiration behind this... Masks are supposed to cover up your identity, right? I feel as if it entitle something to me..."

It's true, though. That the masks they were wearing seemed to convey something. It felt strong for Urie, but Mutsuki...

It contradicted his manner, its fierceness and brutality. A sense of danger lurked around it like a phantom, silently watched its victim, fatal. But still, it did not feel... _wrong_ , nor _right_ on Mutsuki.Urie could not really tell.

"I guess you can understand that better,... the message, Urie. Both you and him are artists,... ah sorry for rambling..."

Now that he mentioned it, Urie realised that Mutsuki had started to talk to him more, and less hesitantly.

"It is more about one's personal intepretion and perception thus through other's words, it changes. Your own opinion is the most valid to you when it comes to art." Urie replied, simply.

"Oh... is that so?" Mutsuki turned to look at him, then gazed at the mask on his hand again. It smiled at him. "We'll end up throw these away afterall..."

Their conversation fell into a halt, the echoes from the streets and the rustling was the only sound left to hear.

The picture left the critic thinking, contemplating. The more he studied it, the more mystery surfaced for him to decipher.

They popped open two cans of black cofffee, drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I struggled sprinkling van Gogh easter eggs and references, as you can see. I hope that it doesn't get on anyone's nerves. I'll try to update as soon as possible, so please stay tuned. Thanksssssss  
> As you can see I'm still heavily affected by theexistentialqueer's "The treachery of image". I just can't seem to do your work justice, sorry.  
> There are 4 paintings in this chapter, correlating to 4 scenes.  
> \- The first one is :Irises", pretty obvious. I just thought that the tone fits the set-up well, not to mention it is one of van Gogh's most well-known. I think it might be a good representation of the core of this fanfiction.  
> \- The second one, also very obvious, is "Café Terrace At Night". I thought it would be a good way to set up the atmosphere.  
> \- The third one was refering to "The Night Café". I actually came up with the idea of intergrating Vincent van Gogh into a MutsUrie fanfic after watching an analysis video on the piece. Here's the link to it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKNAZr0QJzs  
> \- The last one was "Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette" . Gotta admit it was rather forceful of myself to try to cram that image into this, but I think it helped representing my depiction for Mutsuki's mask well, I also really like the vibe.


End file.
